I’m certain
she is unaware
how she imitates the overture
of the clouds
in her careless hairdo

I gave her a clue
both our clothes
resemble the pallor
of the asphalt

I wonder
if she is aware
that everything has begun
to drown
even the buildings,
her breasts
leaving marks
as streaks from petals
in the transiting void

I must avoid
telling her
beauty
is a curtain
that must be drawn open
to reveal our fractured clay

I say
she is oblivious
as a fruit
painted by an artist
that will not eat
her.